


Watching

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Hand Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Janine drown their sorrows. Sherlock watches from the landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HHarris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/gifts).



> Holly and I were flinging rare/weird/impossible ships around one day (this is where the shock horror of MYCABBIE was born), and I blurted something about Johnine, then said something along the lines of, "That's not awful, actually. Can Sherlock watch?" So here we go, PWP that starts out Johnine and ends up. . .angst. Of course! Angsty wanking is a specialty!
> 
> Also, just FYI, I use the "mature" rating for sex between consenting adult characters, and reserve "Explicit" for graphic violence, non-con, etc. This story contains graphic language.

A burst of drunken laughter: Janine’s—he’d heard it so often in the past few weeks—bright and glittering, and there below it—hearty, slightly congested—John’s. Sherlock paused there inside the front door, listened, tested the movement of the air. Their merriment had drowned out the sound of his key in the door, the vague creak when he opened it. He closed it silently behind him, chose his steps carefully as he ascended, skipping the giveaway stair altogether.

“The two of us, enh? Losers in love,” Janine was saying, ruefully, and Sherlock knew the way her hair would move in rolling waves over her shoulders as she shook her head; he’d seen that move before. He’d reached the landing now, stood in the darkness behind the mostly-closed door to the lounge. They still hadn’t heard, hadn’t noticed him.

“The wedding was like a runaway train,” John said, slightly slurry, soft around the edges. There were two bottles of Barolo on the coffee table—one empty, the other nearly so—and two glasses—one empty, the other nearly so—John’s sock-clad feet beneath it next to Janine’s wedge-heeled shoes. “I saw it coming, and god, I wanted to jump out of the way.  . .”

Sherlock shifted slightly for a better view of the two of them on the sofa. Janine sat very close to John, curled up with her bare feet tucked beneath her, her entire body facing him—a listening posture, friendly, relaxed. Affectionate. Her elbow on the back of the sofa, fingers stroking through her own hair. Suggestive. Sherlock knew the smell of her hair, different to the smell of her neck despite the close proximity. It wasn’t unpleasant, being near her; she was kind, fairly smart, very quick. She was fond of Sherlock and that was a rare enough commodity that he knew better than to distance himself from it. There was nothing _wrong_ with her at all. Sherlock _liked_ her. She was simply not what was wanted; merely what was needed. Sherlock was by now fairly sure she knew she was being used, regardless. Knowing that, and still sticking close, well—that was her own choice, for her own reasons, whatever they may be.

Janine made a sympathetic hum at John, and then her fingers left her own hair and slipped through his. Sherlock noticed that John’s hands stiffened and drew half-closed into almost-fists, resting high on his thighs.

“That Mary knew a good thing when she saw it,” Janine said then, more quietly, soft crooning, “Of course she wasn’t about to let you get away.” John’s fingers twitched—not his tremor, it was his right hand; he was fighting the urge to reach out for Janine, to touch her. Her legs were long and bare beneath a short skirt riding high on her thighs because of her drawn-up pose. Sherlock knew the smell of her legs, too. Cocoa butter, not synthetic. Far from unpleasant.

“Look. . .” John said, and it was plaintive and resigned and anyone could hear that although it was meant to sound like a protest, John had already decided not to protest, not really. He was only doing what he thought a moral man would do, drunk on a sofa with a beautiful woman not his wife.

Janine’s lips were stained dark by the wine and they puckered prettily around a, “Shh. . .” Her fingers moved from John’s hair to the side of his face, stroked downward over his end-of-day stubble. Sherlock knew the feel of those fingertips on a bristly cheek. He knew the bristly cheek, too, but not as well. Sherlock watched John’s face as it flickered through a series of considerations, weighing up the consequences, ultimately settling somewhere in the neighborhood of _resolved_. The twitching fingers reached for Janine’s calf and skimmed upward. Sherlock knew these, too: Janine’s skin there, soft and sleek; John’s fingers both sturdy and elegant, calluses along the edge of the palm.

Janine covered John’s hand with her own but didn’t guide it. Her liquid brown eyes stared at John’s bright blue ones for a beat, two, and Sherlock felt a tightening in his gut, _watching_ , and checked to be sure he was still hidden behind the door, feet planted where the floor would not groan or squeak if his weight shifted. His chest flushed hot.

And then all at once John and Janine were kissing, urgently—almost violently—and she was unfurling, legs unwinding, body leaning into his, and John’s hand was gliding up the length of her shin, over her knee, onto her thigh, and both of them hummed and sighed. Sherlock wanted to suck in his breath, but caught himself before he did it, instead inhaled silently through a half-open mouth. Janine settled across John’s lap now, pinning him down between her thighs (this was something she did frequently; she was quite aggressive). John’s hands landed on her thighs, slipping, pressing forward and up beneath the hem of her skirt, and she worked the buttons of John’s shirt, breaking away from his mouth to watch her fingers, and John’s tongue went to the divot beneath her ear, behind her jaw. He grasped Janine’s hands in his, moved them away from his shirtfront to the back of his head until she was stroking his hair again. John was self-conscious about his bullet scar and did not want her taking off his shirt. Sherlock knew this; John stayed covered like a nun nearly always, shirts buttoned to his neck and wrists to keep him safely hidden.

John muttered something, too quiet for Sherlock to hear because John’s mouth was so close to Janine’s ear, but whatever it was he’d said inspired her to reach for her hem and pull, lifting her bottom off his lap until the silky skirt was bunched around her hips. John’s hands slid around her, petted and squeezed her plump buttocks (the panties were those uncomfortable-looking ones with the string up the back); John half-giggled, half-groaned—such an unguarded sound—and Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed against a rapidly drying throat. He watched John’s hands moving so expertly, eagerly, and felt his cock stir behind the placket of his trousers.

They kissed for a while longer, and John raised her up to nuzzle his face against the tops of her breasts, exposed as they were by the low-necked top she wore, pushed up high and together with a blatant liar of a brassiere. Janine hummed approval, let out a long, “ _Aahhh. ._ .” and rolled her hips in John’s grip. She steadied herself against his shoulder, reached between them for his belt buckle and the fastenings of his trousers. Sherlock dipped his gaze to watch John’s sock-clad toes curl against the rug, his cock positively aching now, blood rushing away from his brain, his heart—everywhere—to pool, lava-like, in his pelvis. His hand drifted to the front of his trousers and he dragged the flats of his fingers across his erection through the thin fabric. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Sherlock struggled to keep his breathing quiet.

John’s hands moved with more urgency now, and his breath was heaving, every third one an audible moan or hum, and that alone could have been enough—more than enough—to send Sherlock spinning wildly off, but the effect was compounded by John’s facial expressions, so  gorgeously desperate, so wolfish and hungry. Sherlock shifted his hand to half-grip his cock, nearly surrounding it, fingertips and cotton-blend fabric offering not at all the right sort of friction. Everything wrong, everything about this moment completely off-kilter, even this, his own hand on his own prick. Every bit of it wrong but Sherlock could not turn away.

The first two fingers of John’s hand dipped into his mouth now, quickly, well-practiced of course, then vanished down between Janine’s spread thighs. She hiccupped a sound of shocked delight, and her head sank down beside his, her hair spilling down to block John’s face from Sherlock’s gaze, so he closed his eyes for a moment and listened, and felt his own blood surging, the heat in his belly flaring and subsiding and flaring again.

Janine’s hands disappeared between their bodies, and she shuddered as John stroked her, and he made an encouraging sound against her neck. She shifted slightly away from him and— _dear christ_ —here was John’s cock, thick and dusky and glistening at the crown, and Janine’s fingers encircled it and moved _down_. Then _down_. Down _again_. And John’s growl in response to Janine’s expert handling of him rattled in his chest and Sherlock could hear that he almost coughed.

Quick and quiet, Sherlock tugged down the zip of his trousers and liberated his own leaking prick, hastily licked his palm, took himself in hand.

Janine’s voice pitched downward in a way he had never heard from her, but Sherlock could see from the motion of John’s shoulder, the shifting of his bicep beneath the weave of his shirtsleeve that he had pushed what little there was of her lacy panties aside and was thrusting his fingers inside her. Perspiration broke out on John’s upper lip now, and at his temples, and Janine’s hand stuttered out of rhythm for a moment, and she mewed.

“OK?” John asked then, and Sherlock closed his eyes to keep from flying apart, stroking himself rather more firmly and more slowly than he would have liked: keeping silent at that moment the single most important challenge of his life.

Janine breathed, “Oh yes,” and resumed her ministrations with eager hands. She shook her hair back over one shoulder and Sherlock could see her profile now, face and ear and neck and shoulder all bare, and she leaned close to John’s ear and said in a voice just above a whisper: “He’s watching.”

Sherlock froze.

 John made a questioning noise but their bodies and hands and mouths kept moving, runaway train indeed, here was one, fueled by alcohol and romantic discontent—and, apparently, at least one party’s knowledge that there was a voyeur behind the mostly-closed door to the landing. “He wants you,” she said then, and there was a shift in the atmosphere as John processed it; he sucked air sharply across his teeth. Janine went on, silkily, unperturbed, sporting, what a girl! “He’s watching you right now. . .he’s been dying to see you like this. . .”

The outer edge of John’s groan of pleasure seemed to get caught on a barb of agony. Sherlock resumed stroking himself in earnest, a wet slide of his palm now and then audible, or a broken inhalation he bit down on. John’s eyes scanned the flat: the hallway, Sherlock’s darkened bedroom, and settled for a moment on the door behind which Sherlock stood. John looked at once pained and ravenous, _searching_ , but Sherlock took a half-step backward, farther into the shadows.

“He’s watching,” Janine murmured again. All at once the atmosphere changed and everything went high-pitched, technicolour, and John looked away from the door where there was nothing for him to see anyway, and Janine was rocking her whole body against him now, against his hand, his fingers on her, inside her, Sherlock couldn’t tell anymore, and her fingers around John’s cock slid insistently and she whined, “He wants to _see_ you. He wants to see you like this. You’re gorgeous.” John’s moan was muffled against the side of her throat but it went straight to Sherlock’s cock nonetheless, and he wasn’t sure he would outlast them.

“You’re. . .” Janine said then, and her breath caught, and her hands stilled as she leaned into John, pressed her face against his neck, “Oh, you’re _so_ good. . .” Sherlock could see her thighs quivering, and her torso heaved in quick, shuddering shivers and she yelped and sighed and softened. Janine rode ragged breaths for a few seconds before she shifted her body backward on John’s lap, her bottom as far back as his knees now, and she drew John’s glistening fingers from between her legs and urged him to stroke himself. “ _Mmm_ ,” she encouraged. “You’re lovely. He wants to see your hand on your cock like this. I’m sure he’s doing the same. He wants you so much. You knew; of course you knew.” She ran her palms down over the front of his shirt, teased John’s nipples through the fabric with her painted fingertips. “You want him, too.”

She braced herself with one hand on John’s shoulder, leaned close to his ear and lowered her voice, a pretense of intimacy, but her stage-whispers were clearly meant for Sherlock to hear. “He _sees_ you.”

John’s whiney groan was a plea to stop wrapped in a plea to go on.

Sherlock’s hand stuttered as his spine curled inward, and he shifted his feet on the floor for fear he would topple over; he was light-headed. His cock oozed a steady stream of pre-cum he used to slick his fingers as he jerked himself, heedless now of the vulgar, slippery sounds this created, losing all control of his breath, trying not to hum or moan, watching John’s perfect hand work his perfect cock—Janine was right; John was _gorgeous_. He was _lovely_. Sherlock _wanted_ him.

Janine caught John’s chin in her hand and opened her mouth against his, kissed him deeply with a sweeping tongue. “He wants to kiss you like this,” she breathed. “He wants to lick your lips like this,” and she licked John’s lips, “And lick your tongue like this,” and she stroked her tongue along the side of his, teased the tip of his tongue with the tip of her own. John was gasping now, one hand on his cock, one on Janine’s thigh, curled so hard that white indentations bloomed on Janine’s skin beneath the pressure of his fingertips.

John’s breathing was shallow; he licked his dry lips. Eyes fluttering closed, John’s hand moved quicker, his grip loose and light around his swollen prick.

“He’s watching you. _Right now_. He’s watching your hand to see how he should touch you.”

God love Janine. Sherlock was going to let her keep the ring he’d bought. No. He was going to take the ring back and buy a bigger one and let her keep that one. He bit back a groan and felt sure they must have heard him.

“He wants to see you come. He wants to see your face, thinking about him, knowing he’s watching you. He wants you so much. He _sees_ you. He’s _desperate_ for you.”

John’s hand stopped moving, clenched tight around his cock, and he tried not to shout— _mmm, uh!_ —and his cum spurted thick onto the back of his hand, drizzled between his fingers.

Sherlock’s body responded quick and hard to the sight of John’s orgasm—the way his eyebrows rose and then descended as if they could meet at the bridge of his nose; the needy sound he made—and all at once Sherlock was coming, staggering sideways to lean one hand against the wall while the other stroked his cock through the roiling ache of his release.

Janine kissed John not-quite-chastely, but not deeply, and lifted herself off him, rearranging her clothes as she went, mildly smiling. She reached for the almost-empty wine glass on the coffee table and swigged back the remaining contents. John sighed and tucked himself back into his trousers, then slumped back with his head against the top of the sofa and covered his face with his hands.

“You’re a good man, John Watson. And Sherlock’s really trying to be, I think.” Janine braced herself with one hand on John’s knee as she rose, then swayed across the lounge toward the bathroom. “Looks like you boys have a few things to talk about,” she said good-naturedly. She smiled, blew John a kiss from across the room, ducked into the loo and shut the door.


End file.
